Spine, A OneShot
by compassrose7577
Summary: Jack candidly discusses a few turning points of his life. This was my first fic, and contains the premier appearance of an OC that has since refused to go away, but unrelated to any other fic. It was in response to a challenge, the prompt being: Spine.


**Spine**

**They** quietly sat together on the beach, watching as day lost its battle with night, retreating with its indigo purples and blazing magentas in tow, night advancing, spreading its velvety dark cloak. The moon was making its appearance already, too impatient to wait for day to be gone. It hung, huge and waxy, just above the horizon, threatening to illuminate the night with a blaze of its own.

A fire crackled between them, a welcomed warmth against the approach of the evening chill. Burning since mid-afternoon, the coals were deep and glowing red-hot, fanning to yellow and orange with the off-shore breeze. Embers soared into the sky as the logs collapsed, riding the updrafts, fading into the night sky above like reverse shooting stars.

Jack sat by the fire, arms resting on bent legs, hands dangling loosely between his knees, heels braced deep in the sand. A bottle of rum laid at his feet, nearly half gone. Boots and stockings had been cast away long ago, early in the day, as was all but shirt and breeches. Discarded clothing, along with his pistol and sword belt, lay less than an arm's length away, draped over the trunk of a fallen palm tree. Leaning back against her own palm trunk, she watched him as he gazed into the fire, oddly silent. A few minutes ago, he had been his usual animated, chattering self, bantering and jibing, spinning stories that defied the Greek mythologists. Now, suddenly, he was quiet, turned inward.

A few times his eyes shifted, either to the horizon across the bay, or up the beach toward the other fires where the crew gathered, their voices and laughter a muffled, distant backdrop. Trying not to stare, she turned her own gaze to the bay, watching the moon as it pulled itself up out of the water, rising to its full. A few times, she thought she could feel him looking her way, but always seemed to be looking elsewhere when she turned her head. Finally, in the midst of their eye-tag, she actually did catch him, his dark-rimmed eyes locked on her, head canted slightly to one side, his thoughts masked, as always.

She had seen that speculative look before, gazing at her when he thought she was not looking, always jerking his head away, his eyes darting in any direction but hers. She had seen the appreciative glint, yet nothing had ever become of it, not a nod, nor a smile, an arching of an eyebrow, nothing. Clearly, his interests laid elsewhere.

In more than a month's time since she arrived on the _Black Pearl_, Jack had never once made any overture of any kind, other than an odd kind of friendship. Unfamiliar with his reputation when she arrived on the _Pearl_, the crew were more than willing to regale her with tales and stories of his past, many of which she sincerely doubted but had the good manners not to question. Somehow, though, she struggled to doubt the stories of his feminine conquests. Under all the odd trappings,Jack Sparrow was a good-looking man, with a devilishly dazzling smile, the gift of gab and a charming magnetism. Most distressing was the fact he knew it, and was well-versed on how to use his gifts to their fullest. Young or old, rich or poor, he had his choice of women in the Caribbean—actually the world. With that kind of menu available, what interest could he possibly have in her?

Looking down the beach, she wondered if Will knew how much his happy world was in jeopardy. She had seen Jack's eyes follow Elizabeth across the decks, or, today, down the beach. The tilt of his head, the angle of his body, even now, as he watched them together. The two were well down the shoreline by now, their silhouette a darker purple against the last vestiges of the sunset. Arm in arm, heads bent together, they were one.

"Young love, eh?" he muttered, his head still following their progress. His gaze swung back to her, smiling tight-lipped. "Nothing like it."

The fire caught his profile, lining him in gold , his black cords and braids glinting the occasional copper hair. His ornaments caught the firelight, reflecting little fireflies on him and anything surrounding surface. His eyes had gone distant again, somewhere very far from where they sat. The breeze lifted the tails of his head scarf, wafting them around his shoulders, and billowing his shirt sleeves.

"Was there something between you and Elizabeth?" Before she even finished the question, she regretted asking. Since her first day on board, Jack had been open with her, seemingly willing to discuss virtually anything. Sailing consisted of hours and hours of nothing; conversation was often the only distraction. A strange contradiction he was: completely open to any conversation, but completely closed to anyone really seeing inside. Suddenly, she felt she had just gone too far.

His dark eyes snapped up, blazing bright for just an instant, a moment of discovery. Then, just as quickly, he was able to pull back down the shades, protecting what lay inside.

"What makes you say that?" He leaned back, looking down his long nose at her, his brow furrowed deep, the corners of his mouth taking a sharp, downward pull.

"Oh, I don't know," she said vaguely, hiding a smile, amused at his innocence. "I guess, woman's intuition—something."

A small smile tugged at one corner of his mouth; unwilling, apparently, to argue with the intricacies of the feminine mind.

"At one time, yes—something," he said quietly, bowing his head in surrender, flexing his hands. "Never was quite sure what, but— aye, something."

"And...?"

"And what?" he shot back, frowning.

"And... what happened?"

His shoulders jerked irritably, apparently affronted she would pry so deeply into his personal life. Just as quickly he softened, reconsidering. Sliding a measuring look out of the corner of his eye, he finally relented.

"And...it turned out she was more interested in the pirate than anything else." Pausing, his gaze returned to the fire. His gravelly voice dropped to almost a whisper, barely audible above the ambient sounds of the night. "When she found out inside the pirate was just a man, she lost interest. Went back to someone more her own... age." He winced slightly at that last word.

A silence fell between them, not tense or uncomfortable, just silence. Jack seemed to have nothing more to say; she was uncertain what to say. He rose and poked the fire, adding some more wood, then sat down again, his legs crossed. His ornaments jingled softly with his movement as he leaned forward to pick a twig from the sand and toss it into the fire.

"When was your first?"

He turned his head slowly, cocking it to one side as he gave her a suspicious scowl.

"First what?"

"First love," she answered, laughing softly. "What did you think I meant?"

"Never mind," he countered quickly, ruffling with indignation. "A gentleman never discusses his past."

"Oh, please!" she sputtered loudly. "I understand you have spent a good part of your life talking about your past—your life _is_ your past." Waving a hand into the darkness, she continued, still chuckling. "I'm sitting alone on a beach with a known pirate and his crew, with a ship out there that I've been living on for over a month. I don't think that qualifies me as much of a lady. Safe to say, I think we left 'proper' somewhere out there at sea."

Pulling the rum bottle out of its nest in the sand, he tipped his head back, taking a large gulp, offering the bottle to her as he swallowed, one eye pulling closed.

"No thanks, I can't stand the stuff."

Squinting in dubious suspicion, he plunked the bottle back . Leaning back on his elbows, he lazily crossed his ankles, one foot waggling. The light of the fire fell short of his face now, illuminating him only to his chest, the whites of his eyes still glimmering in the dim.

"Hettie Hawkins," he sighed, heavily.

"Excuse me?"

"Me first love," he clarified, shooting her an impatient glance. "Wasn't that what you asked?" Rocking on his elbows, rearranging his weight, a wistful smile grew on his lips. "She was a beauty. Took me heart, that one did."

"How old were you?"

"Seven," he said, after considering a moment. "I asked her to marry me."

"And...?"

"She said her mother wouldn't let her,so we decided to wait until we were older—ten, or so."

Together, they laughed at the raw innocence of youth.

"And so, who was your first?"

He narrowed one eye at her, twisting his lower jaw off to the side slightly, one eye brow cocked so high it disappeared under his scarf. She returned his steady gaze with her own, patiently waiting for an answer. Breaking his stare, he spent several moments deeply interested in one foot as he flexed it from side to side.

"Older, she was," he started quietly, a remote sound in his voice. "But a comely lass with flashing cornflower blue eyes and moonbeam hair."

"How much older?"

"Fifteen, I think." His gold teeth flashed in the shadows as he smiled. "And with a strong spark for adventure, that one."

Shifting a bit, she leaned closer, wrapping her arms around her bent legs. She had to admit, the thoughts of the first sexual adventures of someone so—experienced—intrigued her, not to be invasive, just openly curious.

"How old were you?"

"Twelve, I think. No, wait..." He tipped his head upward, toward the night, in thought. "I might have been thirteen."

"Oh, so you had a taste for the older ladies right off," she murmured knowingly, her head resting on her knees. "Did she force you into it?"

"Oh, no!" he chuckled, definitively. "I was more than willing."

"And...?

If there was such a thing possible, she was sure she could hear him blushing under his tan. He shifted a bit, his foot stopping in mid-motion. He took a breath to say something, then stopped, clearing his throat. Taking another breath, he held it for a moment, then exhaled deeply before going on.

"Well, I had...you know...without...before...I mean, I thought I knew..." His voice trailed off, and she mused at how odd it was to see Jack Sparrow at a loss for words. He sat up, his face coming back into the firelight, a sideways smile tugging at one corner of his mouth, his head tipping. His eyes, bright with the firelight, caught hers for a moment. Slowly, he shook his head, his ornaments tinkling softly against his chest. "I thought I knew the way of it, I mean, what happens,... if you know what I mean?"

"Boys being boys," she added, trying to be helpful.

"Aye, something like that. But when she...I mean, when I..." He stopped again, his mouth moving wordlessly. "It felt like me spine had gone to jelly. I thought I'd never breathe again."

He smiled nervously, his eyes darting away with embarrassment. She found his discomfort surprising and charming. It was no secret, to anyone who had spent any amount of time around Jack, that he enjoyed, even reveled, in the ribald and bawdy.

"But you did, again," she coaxed, a teasing smile on her lips. "Breathe, I mean."

"Oh, yes!" he agreed adamantly, his eyes growing large, sparking with the fire. "I breathed, more times than should be mentioned!"


End file.
